


The Hanged and The Slain

by anawitch



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anawitch/pseuds/anawitch
Summary: If there’s one thing he likes about his sister it’s her honesty, and that might honestly be the only thing he likes about her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just working off a theory I like and completing the sibling set since these are the only two I haven't wrote about yet! Hope you enjoy.

He has a sixth sense for when his sister’s nearby – call it twin telepathy. That’s what makes him pour himself another drink.

It’s late. There’s no starlight, hardly any moonlight behind the dark clouds of autumn arrived too soon. He considers them looking out the inn window, wonders if they’re in any way linked to… well. _Her._ They probably aren’t - that would be ridiculous - but he’s seen enough magic now to know that nothing is impossible. There’s a chill in the air that cracks the skin of his knuckles, leaving them sore and bloody.

“Drunk already?”

Her voice is warmer than she is when she speaks from behind him. The door never opened, but he felt the familiar crackle of energy that signalled her arrival and ignored it. She makes her way around the chair he sits on, finds a comfortable spot on his rented bed and pulls back her mask.

“What’s it to you?” he asks unkindly.

There’s a twitch in her brow that’s a little disturbed, a little condescending. Whatever’s on her tongue she bites back, joining him in staring out at the sky. It’s aimless. Pointless. There are no answers there for either of them.

That’s what makes him pour himself another drink.

“She’s not dead yet,” he says.

Qrow slumps back. He knows what’s prompted her little visit. It’s been weeks since they locked Amber under Beacon.

“She should be,” she replies.

If there’s one thing he likes about his sister it’s her honesty, and that might honestly be the only thing he likes about her. It’s a bad thought, but she doesn’t care for things like comradery and blood. Doesn’t concern herself with what others think about her. Doesn’t bother with airs and graces. Qrow tries that too, wonders if it’s as difficult for her as it is for him.

“You shouldn’t have stopped it.”

No. It’s easy for her. Raven doesn’t concern herself with others full stop, not anymore. When she dreams of the next death it’s nothing more than a silver screen, something certain but distant from her. When she dreams it’s already history, but Qrow can’t stop naively seeing it as a preventable future.

She’s probably right. That’s what makes him pour himself another drink.

He looks at her through bleary eyes. Her jet black hair is streaked with grey, the red of her irises framed with heavy bags. She looks older than she used to, but then he does too, and when she looks back at him her expression is neutral, perfectly so. Practiced. He wants to bring up Summer. He wants to point out her hypocrisy, how hard they fought fate for her _together,_ how they failed, how she would have wanted them to carry on trying for the rest anyway. But there’s not enough whisky in all of Remnant for that conversation, so he turns his head away again and looks out at the smoky sky once more.

They can delay it and delay it and delay it, but in the end it doesn’t mean shit. They can’t be there every time, and it’s always the same; when they dream, it’s already set in stone – somewhere, somehow, that person will perish too soon. Raven’s right. What a fucking curse.

When he tips the bottle to pour another drink it’s almost empty, and he hears the click of Raven’s tongue in her mouth.

“It’ll be easier to sleep if you just accept it.”

She’s right. She’s always right. Big sister Raven, flying on in with another terrible truth. The concern in her voice is what tips him over the edge.

“Screw you,” he all but shouts. The eyes he felt burning a hole in his side leave, roll away into the back of her head. They’ve had this talk a thousand times before. A million. They just see things differently. Raven will let destiny to do as it pleases, no matter the cost. Qrow will take it into his own hands. In the end, neither of them gets what they want.

Without another word she transforms in a flurry of feathers and disappears out the window, into midnight. He tips back the bottle and swallows the dregs.

When he passes out he dreams of that damn Pumpkin Pete's kid.


End file.
